


Chase the Shadows Away

by halfabreath



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Deaf!Whiskey, M/M, hoh!Holster, nhl!Whiskey, nhl!holster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 22:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13750191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: Ransom doesn't think he'll ever get used to Holster travelling on roadies without him, but at least he has ABBA to keep him company.





	Chase the Shadows Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecretGeniusShittyKnight (augopher)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/gifts).



> Written for secretgeniusshittyknight.

For what feels like the hundredth time this week, Ransom awakes to the dulcet tones of a bunch of Swedes begging for a man after midnight. He should have known better than to let Holster choose the ringtone for his incoming calls, but Ransom had frankly expected his boyfriend to choose Adele or  _ The Office _ theme song. Those, he could live with. ABBA? Not so much. Still, he can't bring himself to change it because he can only get away with it when Holster is gone, and Ransom  _ hates _ when Holster is gone.    
  
Ransom rolls over, groaning and groping blindly for his phone, and promptly falls off the edge of the couch. Serves him right for falling asleep in the middle of Whiskey and Holster's game, but judging from the talking heads blathering away on the TV screen the Rangers finished playing quite a while ago. ABBA is still singing and their tight harmonies are chipping away at Ransom's last fuck, and damn it, he was saving that for Holster. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to Holster travelling on roadies without him, but that's what happens when one half of a defense pair signs with an NHL team and the other goes into consulting to save up money for grad school (never mind that Holster's offered to pay his tuition with his salary; left to his own devices he'll give most of it to his mom, invest the rest, and use any leftover change to buy a twelve pack of white athletic socks and be perfectly content. At least this way Ransom can take time to figure out exactly what he'd be going to grad school to study because he's still pretty clueless when it comes to his own future even if he already knows who he's going to spend it with).    
  
But, more importantly, Ransom hopes ABBA finds someone to chase the shadows away because he sure as hell doesn’t have the mental capacity to do much more than lay on the floor. He reaches up, elbow bent awkwardly, as he skims his fingertips along the top of the coffee table in search of his phone. He knocks off an empty cup, a remote that he cannot recognize for the life of him, and toggles an Xbox controller uselessly before he realizes that he's holding the wrong device, and through it all,  _ gimme gimme gimme _ repeats incessantly. Just when Ransom's about to give up, the stress of the week bearing down on him as that stupid song repeats over and over, his hand closes around his phone. He swipes his thumb over the vibrating screen to answer the call, and Holster's face fills the screen just as he settles back down beneath the coffee table.    
  
Holster looks good. A little pixelated from the shitty hotel wifi, but the navy blankets pulled up to his chest make his eyes look so, so blue. His cheeks are still flushed from the game even though he's probably been out of his uniform for an hour; Ransom's spent hours pressing kisses to those cheeks just to keep the blush alive. Holster's not looking at the screen, gaze directed down as he tries to untangle his headphones with one hand, and Ransom watches the muscles shift under his bare skin when he turns his attention back to the phone. His smile grows impossibly wider when he sees Ransom on the other side of the video chat.    
  
"Rans! You'll never guess what I," He cuts himself off suddenly, eyes glancing off screen again. "One sec, babe, Whiskey wants to say hi." Holster explains quickly as the view on the screen blurs when he turns the phone around. Ransom finds himself looking at a generic, if upscale, hotel room with Whiskey standing by the open door connecting the suite together. Holster and Whiskey are in adjoining hotel rooms more often than not on roadies. They got along well enough at Samwell - being the only Deaf athletes on the team had forced them together - but they hadn’t been close friends. Now, with Whiskey billeting at Ransom and Holster’s apartment, they’ve formed a bond Ransom doesn’t quite understand but sees firsthand everyday. Their personalities don’t seem to mesh at all, but Ransom’s come home more than once to find them peacefully watching tape or cooking together.    


Whiskey gives Ransom a little wave as he ducks down to see the screen better.  _ Hey, did you see the game? _ He signs, hands moving with a precision Ransom will always envy. He’s been learning ASL since the day after he met Holster but it’s still his second language, and while he no longer feels clumsy he certainly doesn’t move with a native speaker’s fluidity. Ransom sits up and props his phone up against the couch cushions to keep his hands free.

_ Just the first two periods. Please don’t tell me Holster tried to fight someone.  _ Signing is second nature now, but the exhaustion that’s settled over Ransom’s neck and shoulders slows his hands.

Whiskey shakes his head, lips quirking up in a rare smile. His hair falls over his forehead, making him look younger than he is. He’s a professional athlete, but he’ll always be Ransom’s Tadpole.  _ No, no fights. Just ask him about overtime. _

_ I missed overtime? Sorry, man. You had a great assist in the first, though. _ Ransom offers as the exhaustion slips away and cold guilt slinks in to replace it. He tries to watch as many of their games as possible, but between their grueling schedule and his work hours it’s difficult for him to see every single one.

Whiskey waves him off, shoulders lifting in a small shrug.  _ Don’t worry about it, but thanks. See you tomorrow. _ He finishes with another smile before straightening up to walk into his own room. Ransom waves a quick goodbye just before the room spins again and the screen settles back on Holster’s face. Ransom picks up his phone and lays back down, scooting back until he’s laying under the coffee table. Holster settles his Music Link headphones behind his hearing aids, jostling the screen when he plugs them into the phone. 

“So,” Holster begins, gaze roaming over the screen to take in Ransom’s features. He looks adorable, all tucked in and ready for bed, but Ransom can’t help but wish he was in  _ their _ bed. “You gonna ask me about overtime, or am I gonna ask you why you’re under the coffee table?” Holster says, and somehow the sound of his voice changes the course of Ransom’s whole day.

“Adam Jacob Birkholtz, were you eavesdropping?” Ransom chastises, knowing full well Holster could see Whiskey’s half of the conversation. Still, it’s fun to see his cheeks get just a little pinker. 

Holster rolls his eyes. “Just a little bit.” He admits, absolutely shameless. 

“Rude.” Ransom huffs, but he can’t keep up the act when Holster throws his head back and laughs. “How was overtime?”

Holster shifts, sitting up a little straighter. “Oh, it was wasn’t a big deal, just scored a tiny little goal.” He waves his free hand, the picture of nonchalance.

“Holtzy! Fuck, I can’t believe I missed it. I took a stupid nap on the stupid couch because I was tired from my stupid job.” Ransom scrubs his hand over his face, trying to wake himself up. It’s bad enough that Holster’s been gone for almost a full week on a three game roadie on the west coast, but missing his biggest play is worse. The guilt comes flooding back.

“It’s not a big deal.” Holster says, thick eyebrows drawing together with worry. 

“It is!” Ransom says, shoulders slumping in defeat. “I know this is like, your job and whatever but I’m still mad I missed it.” He admits. The image on the screen shifts as Holster brings his phone closer to his face. 

“Do you want to watch it tomorrow when I get back and pretend to be surprised?” Holster offers; something surges in the back of Ransom’s throat, relief and love swirling together into some emotion he can’t quite identify. Holster always knows how to make him feel better, even if they’re thousands of miles apart. 

“Hell yeah.” Ransom breathes, the smile returning to his face. Holster beams at him, somehow brightening their apartment even though he’s in a hotel room on the other side of the country. Ransom brushes his thumb over the line of Holster’s jaw, disappointed when he finds a smooth screen instead of rough stubble. “And for your information, I’m under the table beca - ” Ransom’s cut off by a yawn, Holster’s soft laughter drifting through the small speakers as he covers his mouth with his hand. 

“Go to sleep.” Holster instructs, and shakes his head when Ransom protests. “Go to sleep, and I’ll be back before you know it. Our flight leaves at like five in the morning, so I’ll be in New York by lunch.” He promises. He looks so earnest and Ransom’s so tired that it’s an easy decision to say goodbye and end the call.

It takes Ransom a full thirty minutes to muster the energy to crawl out from under the coffee table, but once he’s up he finds the will to speed through his evening routine. He sends Holster a text right before he closes his eyes ( _ nite holtzy _ ), and he wakes up to a reply from Holster the next morning ( _ Go the fuck to sleep, Rans _ ). He fully intends to work his way through his chore spreadsheet until Holster and Whiskey get home, but by noon he finds himself crawling into bed again for a nap. 

Ransom wakes up to soft kisses pressed behind his ear and two hundred pounds of hockey player draped over his back.

 


End file.
